The Cursed Hospital Room
Years ago, I worked as a forensic nurse in the lock-up unit of a bustling urban hospital. It was a tough job—one that exposed me to the darkest corners of human behavior. But nothing prepared me for the patient we called Mary.
Mary was an elderly woman, frail in appearance but with a fire in her eyes that could unsettle even the most hardened staff. She had been brought to our unit after being found wandering the streets, muttering about a "demon" named Tiberius. She claimed he had followed her for decades, tormenting her, and now, he was trying to finish what he’d started.
At first, we dismissed her claims as delusions brought on by age or trauma. But soon, the unexplainable began to happen.
Mary's screams would echo down the halls at all hours, bone-chilling cries of pain and terror. We’d rush into her room only to find her battered and bruised—bloody lips, blackened eyes, and long, angry welts across her arms. She would sit trembling, whispering, “It was Tiberius. He’s angry with me.”
We suspected self-harm at first, but no one ever saw her inflict these injuries. Even when she was under constant observation, the bruises and cuts appeared out of nowhere, as though an invisible hand was punishing her.
The strangeness escalated. Objects in her room would move on their own. A tray would slide off the bedside table without warning, chairs would creak as if someone unseen had taken a seat, and once, her cart was found tipped over in the corner—far from where we had left it. The room was under lock and key, with no way for anyone to enter unnoticed.
Mary was eventually placed in protective restraints. The doctors were certain she must have been hurting herself. But even then, new marks would form on her skin, long scratches that seemed to appear while we were watching. Her whispers grew more insistent: “Tiberius doesn’t like being restrained. He’s angry at all of you now.”
After several weeks, Mary was discharged to a long-term care facility. We thought the nightmare was over. We were wrong.
The room—Room 206—never returned to normal. Strange occurrences became commonplace. Lights flickered on and off at random, no matter how many times maintenance checked the wiring. Alarms from machines would go off without reason. Patients assigned to that room frequently reported feeling watched, some even refusing to sleep in the bed, claiming they heard whispers in the dark.
One night, during a quiet shift, a security guard ran into the nurse's station, his face pale. “The lights in Room 206,” he stammered. “They’re flashing like crazy.” We checked the camera footage, and sure enough, the lights were strobing in a rapid, almost rhythmic pattern. When we entered the room, the lights stopped. The air felt thick, suffocating, and icy cold. We left quickly, the unease lingering long after we locked the door.
Room 206 became infamous among staff. If something was going to go wrong—a code blue, a rapid response—it always seemed to happen there. Many of us began to wonder if Mary had truly left or if Tiberius had claimed the room as his domain.
Even now, years later, the room stands empty more often than not. Staff whisper about its haunted past, and patients who stay there report vivid nightmares, shadowy figures, and the unsettling feeling of being watched.
I’ll never forget Mary or her chilling words: “He’s not here for me anymore. He’s here for anyone who dares to enter.”